The Smoke In Your Eyes Does Not Dim The Sincerity Of My Affection
by Writing Sins and Tragedies
Summary: Castiel knows that the man he loved and sacrificed everything for was gone, swallowed up by this demonic, perverted spirit that deceptively wore his skin. He promises himself he won't fall vulnerable to the demon's manipulation, but he should have known that even the most fractured of bonds can never be truly broken. Destiel set in season ten.
1. I'm All You Got

**Author's Note: I'm feeling especially mean today, so I thought I'd write some Destiel with Demon!Dean and a whole lot of angst. You're welcome.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the show Supernatural nor its characters. Obviously, this would be a scene if I did.**

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When Metatron told him Dean Winchester was dead, Castiel remembered diving off a cliff of agony and despair, his chest clenching painfully as if his ribcage had caved in on itself and one of his rib bones had pierced his heart. He remembered feeling hopeless and hollow, disregarding Hannah's offer of staying in Heaven and replenishing his grace. She was so idealistic and pure in Heaven's infiniteness, Castiel didn't know how to tell her that even though he still had the ghost of a fading grace, he wasn't an angel anymore. The Righteous Man—his charge, his hero, his friend, his _everything_—was dead, and along with him died his devoted angel's hope and will to survive.

He remembered that moment of euphoria bliss when Sam called him later that day and told him Dean was alive, and he remembered when that happiness shattered when Sam continued to admit that he was also missing. He remembered his downward spiral of depression and heartbreak shatter as did the fog around him, vowing to find Dean whatever the cost, whatever the repercussions that fall upon him in doing so.

He remembered the tang of bitterness that stung his chest and soured his heart when his failing condition prevented him in going on this quest. Hell, Sam _broke his arm_ and could have broken a lot more because of his lack of diligence and health. After that, he was forced to be stuck on the sidelines, watching as Sam worked himself weary and ill and not having the strength to lessen his burden. That was what Dean would want—what he always wanted. And Castiel couldn't even give him that.

He remembered being so wrapped up in Hannah and the reconstruction of Heaven that he missed Sam's phone calls, telling him that while he discovered Dean's location and was on his way to collect him, he had changed. He was a demon now, black eyes and tarnished soul and loosened morals and all. He was with Crowley—_enjoying_ being with Crowley. He remembered feeling that searing burn in his blue eyes as salt water began sliding down his cheeks. He remembered Hannah—bewildered at the grieving action, bewildered at how _human_ it was—demanding why he was acting this weak, this _human _when he was neither of those things. Bitterly, without thought, he remembered snapping that she wouldn't understand because she had never been in love.

And that was what it boiled down to, in the end. He loved Dean—He _adored_ him, in fact. Everything he ever did was because or _for_ Dean Winchester. For his survival and safety and happiness...he always put Dean in front of everything else.

He remembered hardening his heart that night as he bid Hannah goodbye for now and drove to the bunker where Sam had told him Dean was, reminding himself that this wasn't the Dean he loved. Not anymore.

And in the end, he was foolish to think that that actually _mattered._

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Even though Sam had prepared him all he could on the phone and at the entrance of the bunker, Castiel was still taken aback when he caught sight of Dean and found his new true nature hidden under those rugged, handsome features. He was shining the First Blade, grinning with a murderous glint in his eye as he polished the damned weapon that turned him into a monster.

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, the shakiness and uncertainty in his voice when addressing this new colder, crueler version of his brother identical to the mixed feelings brewing in his heart, "Uh, Dean? Cas is here."

At the angel's name, Dean flickered his gaze upward, ominous black turning deceivingly green as he said with a cold chuckle, "Wow, Cas, you look like shit."

The lack of good-nature and jest in the statement made Castiel bristle, narrowing his gaze as he replied stoically, "Trust me, with my all-seeing eyes, I certainly appear better than _you._"

His bitter, angry response made Dean's grin widen, "What's wrong, Angel? Too dirty now for your self-righteous ass?"

Sam noticed Castiel locking his jaw and held up a surrendering hand, saying gently, "Chill out, you two. Cas," He turned to him, sympathy and understanding in his soft voice, "I know he seems bad, but he's still Dean. Just...please try to remember that."

Castiel responded with an icy glare shot at the grotesque monster, causing Sam to sigh with exasperation and Dean to smirk in satisfaction. With a sudden surge, Castiel somehow found him wishing he had died before he could witness this—his Righteous Man, his _Dean_ becoming the very creature that destroyed his life and turned him into a scarred, guilt-ridden shell of what he could have been given an "apple pie life."

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When Sam deemed it was safe enough to leave them alone together and left the room to take a shower, Cas was worried, of course. Not worried for his safety (he might be dying, but his dwindling grace was threefold more powerful than a demon), but for what he might have to do to Dean in self-defense (or, more accurately, what he might do to Dean of his own free will in result of the demon's cruel mockery and baiting). And low and behold, the danger arrived just as the sound of Sam shutting the bathroom door and locking it echoed through the bunker and Dean _pounced_ on him...

But not the way Castiel had expected.

"Dean?" The angel demanded in both alarm and confusion as the demon slammed him against the nearest wall and nipped at his jaw, biting bruises into his skin like one would a lover, "Dean, what are you—_stop!_"

"Oh c'mon," Dean said with a dark chuckle, finally pulling back to grin ferly at him, "I know you've always had a boner for me, Cas. And to be honest?" He leaned in and caught Castiel's bottom lip with his teeth, worrying it slightly before letting it go to whisper huskily in the angel's ear, "I've liked you, too. Pretty angel like you? Who could resist?" He turned mockingly thoughtful and added after a moment, "Well, maybe the old me. You know, the one with enough abandonment and self-loathing issues to be a one-trick whore. But guess what?" His eyes turned soulless black, and Castiel's pounding heart stuttered, "Not anymore, Cas. I _take_ what I want. And right now...I want a piece of heavenly ass from a former God himself."

Before Cas could protest, Dean dove in and sealed their lips into a hard, bruising kiss, teeth clashing and tongues battling for dominance in each other's mouths. The angel felt weak and human as his knees buckled under him, his body reacting to the physical contact in a way his mind was screaming was wrong.

Finally, after a longer time than Cas cared to admit, he found enough strength to shove Dean back, gritting out through clenched teeth and swollen lips, "You are _not_ Dean Winchester. You are an abomination wearing his skin."

Something flickered across Dean's _true_ face in that moment—something vulnerable and almost human in that dark, sinful essence of darkness and damnation, and it gave Castiel hope. But in less than a second, it was swallowed up by the overwhelming amount of decadence and iniquity as Dean took a few steps towards the angel and put their lips only a fraction of an inch apart, close enough for Castiel to feel his breath ghosting his shivering skin, "Yeah? Well, too bad, Sweetheart. Right now, I'm all you got."

And this time when Dean kissed him, Castiel didn't fight back, despair chipping at his heart as he wrapped his arms around the demon—not Dean, not really—and met his eagerness with the kind of hunger he'd always held for him—the _old_ him.

Because he knew, deep in his heart, that what he said was true. This demonic, perverted version of Dean Winchester was all Castiel had left, and he was damned sure to cling to it with a white-knuckled grip and a breaking heart.

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**Author's Note: Reviews would be awesome, thanks.**


	2. A Hope Nonethless

**Author's Note: Because of such positive feedback, I am proud to announce that I have decided to make this story multi-chaptered. It will follow a loose plot (still working out the details) and I don't know if updates will be all that frequent since I'm only adding to this story when inspiration strikes (but I have a lot more chapters already planned out in my head because Destiel with Demon!Dean is probably one of my new favorite things), but I will try to update as often as I can. Thanks for the reviews and I hope you are pleased with my decision to continue this story.**

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Castiel liked to say he hated him. After all, there were a _lot_ of things to hate regarding this twisted version of the Righteous Man—so emotionless and taunting and rude and c_ruel_ that Cas always found himself wondering which was the best way to deal with the problem: smite this vile, malevolent monster and save the Earth from his inevitable reign of darkness and torture, or allow him to walk free and continue to manipulate him and his loved ones just for the sake of his sick entertainment.

And like the selfish coward he was, Cas always went for the latter.

He _wanted_ to hate him—for what he'd become, for all the horrors he had committed and _would_ eventually commit in the future—but Castiel knew deep down, he could never feel any inclination of hatred towards the man (_demon,_ Cas corrected himself sharply,_ he's not a man anymore_). He was too beautiful, too kind-looking, too _Dean._ Castiel could never hate him. It didn't matter if he wasn't really "Dean" anymore. He was wearing his face, and that was all it took to render the Angel of The Lord putty in his hands.

Dean would laugh at him sometimes for being so wistful and staring at him with a nostalgic and heartbroken glint in his blue eyes. He would pin the angel down to the bed and kiss him deeply and dirtily, whispering hoarsely against his spit-slick lips, "That Righteous Man you adore so much is _gone,_ Cas. I'm not him. Not anymore." He'd chuckle then, like Castiel's misery and despair over the fact actually _amused_ him, and start planting sloppy, possessive kisses across Castiel's firm planes of skin, "And good thing too because he would never grow the balls to do this," He bit a bruise into Castiel's collarbone, making the angel cry out, "He could never give you what I can and will. So you better stop looking at me and wishing it was _him."_

Later, after their act of sick, disgusting passion, Dean would allow Cas to lay his head on his chest. With a guilty conscious and blissed out mind, the angel would let the rhythm of the demon's deceptively steady heartbeat soothe him into a state of tranquility and slumber. But just as Castiel's mind flirted on the edge of sleep, he would stretch his awareness and find Dean staring down at him with an oddly raw expression on his face, his eyes and the sour twist in his mouth indecipherable as he absently traced symbols and sigils into Castiel's skin.

Castiel liked to believe that he was changing him. Sure, it was a lost hope concocted by his brain to justice doing _this—whatever _this was that Castiel was terrified to put an official name to—with a demon, but a hope nonetheless.

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**Author's Note: Reviews, follows, and favorites would be appreciated.**


	3. Monster In The Shell of His Former Self

**Author's Note: So I know that this demon version of Dean isn't necessarily the "canon version," but because I kinda wrote the first chapter only one episode into season ten, I'm hoping you'll give me some slack. As of now, I'm writing my version of demon!Dean (which I'm thinking you'll like better than the "real" demon!Dean), but never fear, Readers. He'll still be kinda horrible in that sick, sexy way of his.**

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With a cold, detached laugh, Dean would always assure Castiel he didn't have the capacity to _care _about anything anymore, but there were times—times like when Dean would drape a blanket over Sam after he would collapse on the couch from exhaustion almost absently like it was second nature (second only to his tarred spirit and demonic soul); times like when he would stroke Castiel's hair when he was just on the edge of sleep—when Castiel allowed himself to believe this wasn't so.

The belief was biased and most likely false, but Castiel couldn't let himself give up the hope that his Dean wasn't all the way gone just yet. Sometimes, in his low moments when he would spend all afternoon vomiting blood into the toilet, it was the only thing that kept him fighting.

"Hey," Dean greeted with a wicked, lopsided grin as he strolled into their bedroom and locked the door behind him, the warmth in his voice only chilling Castiel to the core, "Sammy's gone on the hunt for Crowley. Probably won't be back for a couple days."

"By himself?" Castiel demanded, shutting Dean's faded copy of Slaughterhouse-Five and sliding it back on the nightstand, "Dean, he has a broken arm. Crowley will—"

"Sam can take care of himself," Dean told him with an eye roll, as if Castiel's concern for his brother's survival was just an exasperating annoyance, "And if he can't, then well..." He shrugged indifferently, "That's natural selection for you, Cas."

Castiel flinched when the demon called him _Cas,_ the nickname only one of the many reminders of how Dean could be just as familiar as he could entirely alien at the exact same time. He tried to hide it, but Dean seemed to notice the action by the way his face hardened. Dean hated when Castiel would act as if he was just a stranger in someone else's skin, but Cas couldn't help it. This wasn't Dean, and nothing could convince Cas otherwise.

Because the real Dean wouldn't let Sam go off by himself to take on the King of Hell. The real Dean wouldn't treat Castiel like his own personal source of entertainment, disregarding the way his remaining grace would reject his demonic nature every time he forcibly sealed their lips together. The real Dean wouldn't want to _survive_, if he realized this was what he'd become.

But this wasn't the real Dean, and Castiel kept trying to remind himself that because sometimes that key piece of knowledge was easy to forget.

"Come here, Angel," Dean rumbled with a wide smile as he slipped out of his shirt and crawled onto the bed, pinning the other's arms down on the bed and hovering his lips over his mouth, "I can see you, too, you know. Your true visage, or whatever." Castiel felt his heart quicken at his words, and the demon chuckled as he continued in a stage whisper, "I wonder what it would have looked like before me, before I made those other dicks with wings scar up that pretty little face." Castiel wanted to say he felt proud of those scars—the scars from Perdition and civil war that were all in result of his bond with Dean and his inspiring crusade. During the old days, he'd always wish that Dean could actually _see_ all that Castiel had sacrificed for him.

He never believed he would get his wish, nor that it would be this terrifying.

"Sweetheart, you're nothing but an angel with a dirty face," Dean said with a breathy laugh, flickering his tongue out to taste Castiel's ragged breathing, "You're so _dirty,_ Cas. Almost as dirty as me—" Cas couldn't stand it any longer and surged his lips forward, successfully shutting Dean up from rambling on any further. Dean grinned into the kiss—seeming always so _surprised_ at the eagerness the angel displayed—and tangled his fingers in Castiel's inky black hair, angling him to the side to lick further into his mouth in a way that made Cas shudder.

Dean kissed with all of his human experience and all of his demonic nature, and while the former was a blessing, the latter was a curse.

Most times Castiel's grace was strong enough not to succumb to the sin and iniquity that stained Dean's tongue, but there were other occasions where his body would shut down completely, his health deteriorating double its normal rate every time the taste of Dean slid down his throat and blackened his fading grace.

Unfortunately, this was one of those occasions, and the pain that pulsed through his body overrode the pleasure. Castiel shoved Dean off of him and took off to the bathroom, only making it to the toilet just before the bile shot from his mouth.

He stayed in there until his stomach was empty and hollow, and even then he dry heaved for another fifteen minutes until the demonic influence had entirely left his system. When he was finished, Castiel curled up on the floor and hung his pounding head between his knees.

He didn't know how long much time passed until Dean picked the lock and came into the bathroom. Cas didn't even bother raising his head to see what he was doing, even as he heard the cabinet door open and the sink turn on. He only lifted his head when he felt calloused fingertips beckon his chin upward, finding Dean's dark green eyes pinned on him as the demon raised the damp wash rag and applied it to the angel's sweat-stained brow.

Castiel cleared his sandpaper throat and began hoarsely, "Dean—"

"Shut up," The demon ordered curtly, though his touch was gentle as he swept the rag over his face, "You should've told me about this, you know. Just because I'm capable of killing you doesn't mean I _want to."_

Castiel rolled his eyes and gave him a sardonic reply, "I'm pleased your demonic nature hasn't taken away any of your impeccable charm."

A ghost of a smile surfaced on Dean's stony façade, "It hasn't taken away anything, Castiel. I'm still me." _I wish that were true,_ he almost said but bit the words back just in time.

Instead, he cocked his head and asked bluntly, "Why are you doing this? I thought you didn't care."

"About you dying?" Dean said casually with a raised eyebrow, prompting Castiel to hesitantly nod.

"I don't." The demon assured him with a shrug just before their gazes locked. At the intensity that overcame the green in his eyes, Castiel shrunk into himself slightly, watching with wide eyes as Dean continued, "You know why? Because you're _not_ going to die, Cas. Ever. Even if I have to cut out another angel's grace _myself,_ you will not leave me." He smiled and kissed Castiel chastely on the lips, leaning over and whispering in his ear, "You belong to _me, _Cas, and I take care of what's mine."

Castiel let the demon wipe the sweat from his brow and didn't correct him by pointing out that Castiel was not really _his._ He wasn't a possession or piece of property that could be owned. But even if he did have the capability, his owner had already died a long time ago, leaving a monster in the shell of his former self.

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**Author's Note: Review, follow, favorite. **


	4. Losing Control

**Author's Note: Here, we have sick!Cas, possessive!Dean, a mental breakdown, and all kind of angst. Sounds exciting, doesn't it?**

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Though there was obvious tension brewing in the bunker (Sam trying fruitlessly to convince Dean to let them change him back into a human, Dean threatening to leave and never return if Sam tried to use actual force against him to make that pipedream come true, Castiel trying to pretend everything was alright when both his dying grace and guilty conscious was screaming otherwise), they fell into a rhythm. Sam and Dean would go on hunts like they always do (Sam just for something to do and Dean to quell his ever pressing need to kill before he turned that First Blade on Sam or Cas), and Castiel would stay at the bunker, dealing with his faltering grace the best he could.

Most days, he would just lie in Dean's bed, falling into fits of restless sleep with Dean's scent in his nose and name on his lips. Some days, when the guilt and sorrow the room brought became too overwhelming, Castiel would force himself to leave, often choosing to wander through the bunker and become accustomed to its winding halls and hidden rooms. Of course, he would never last long before he would fall into a violent coughing fit and be forced to sit down for a few minutes to regain his strength, but at least he was making the effort to stay active for as long as he was capable of.

Hannah would visit sometimes, Castiel was delighted to admit. The first time she appeared (only a week after he had decided to stay at the bunker and rejoin the "Team Free Will" unit that was now falling to pieces), her smile dropped almost instantly into disapproving pursed lips upon smelling sulfur and iniquity, disgust palpable in her voice as she stated stiffly, "I see that you have yet to change your precious demon back into a human."

Castiel locked his jaw, pushing himself up from his slumped position on the couch and walking over to her, "All he needs is time, Hannah. Sam and I will convince him to let us change him back." When she narrowed her gaze, he added, "Eventually."

She eyed him with disbelief but didn't voice her skepticism, instead surveying the desolate area around them and saying casually, "Where is the demon and his brother now?"

Castiel would never get used to the word _"demon"_ in description of Dean, always flinching at the name and biting back protests of denial despite the accuracy of the title. He grimaced and glanced away, ignoring her question and asking flatly, "What is wrong, Hannah? You would not come here without a reason."

"I came to see how you were doing," Hannah informed him, sincerity shining in her eyes as she hesitantly laid a hand on his shoulder and peered at his fading grace with her omniscient eyes, "It's getting worse. It won't be much longer until..." She looked up into his eyes and trailed off, raw pain and frustration in her gaze as she demanded curtly, "Please, why won't you let us help you? We'll figure something out, Castiel. Heaven—"

"Heaven is not as supreme and all-powerful as it used to be," Castiel reminded her gently, "And for me to take another angel's grace would only result in an innocent's life to be lost. I can't do that, Hannah, just as you couldn't allow anymore unnecessary deaths and convinced me to lock Metatron away for all eternity instead of ending his life."

She clenched her jaw and tore her gaze away, releasing her grip on his shoulder and taking a step back. In mere seconds, she changed from his friend to his business associate, saying in a professional, detached tone, "I hate to disturb you or your health any further, but Heaven has discovered more rogue angels. I wanted to go by myself to retrieve them to spare you any stress, but I'm not good at handling rebels." She let out an exasperated sigh, her hands clenching into tight fists at her sides, "I don't understand why they would pick humanity over their celestial home. But you do," She took a step forward, her eyes pleading, "It will take a day at the most. Please, Castiel. Heaven needs you."

_Heaven always needs me,_ he thought bitterly but pushed it away before Hannah could detect it, smiling tightly at her and nodding in reluctant agreement. She was so young and out of her depth—so naive and idealistic, still holding tightly onto the ridiculous belief that Heaven was as divine and almighty as they forced you to believe. Castiel remembered what it was like to be in her shoes, many years ago when he was assigned to look after his charge that eventually shifted into being his cause of rebellion. _She will learn one day,_ he thought to himself with both delight at another angel's choice of free will and dread for the inevitable consequences, _hopefully by then she will have found her own Righteous Man to cling to when that happens._

Without a thought to write Sam and Dean a quick note in case they get back before he did, Castiel led Hannah to the car and drove up off.

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When Castiel arrived back at the bunker, it was around midnight and the bunker was a tousled mess.

Furniture was destroyed and strung out throughout the rooms and hallways, leaving a clear path of wreckage that stopped just at the closed kitchen door. _Speaking of the kitchen,_ Castiel thought, tentatively making his way towards it, which was thundering with nameless objects being broken and Sam's feeble shouts for someone—the destroyer, Castiel was guessing—to _stop._ Dean was his immediate worry, his angel blade slipping from his sleeve and into his readying hand.

"Dean?" The angel called out, hoping his voice would carry over the ruckus, "Sam?" Not even a moment after, Sam busted through the door and let out a loud sigh of relief when he caught sight of Castiel

"Cas, thank God." The youngest Winchester sighed out with a smile, though his eyes were still wide with terror. He turned towards the kitchen and yelled hesitantly, "Dean, _stop_. Cas is back."

Abruptly, all sounds of demolition ceased. Instead, the sound of heavy, angry footsteps took its place before Dean appeared right in front of Castiel's face, emotions of fury and betrayal and panic mixing effortlessly in his stony expression. Before Castiel could demand what was wrong, Dean grabbed the collar of his shirt and jerked him up in the air, demanding in a low, dangerous growl, "And where the _fuck_ have you been?" Castiel tilted his head and stared confusedly into Dean's black eyes, his expression of puzzlement and agitation at the other's hostility his only response.

"Dean, cut it out." Sam said as he gripped his brother's shoulder tightly until Dean finally released Castiel. The angel, whose strength was already utterly drained in result of the heated battle he only barely survived with Hannah, almost fell to the ground without the support, but Dean caught him just before he hit the floor.

For a few tense, heart-pounding moments, the whole world bled away and all that was left was the two, Dean clutching Castiel hard enough to leave bruises and Castiel wrapping his hands around Dean's clenched fists and squeezing them with mild panic and reassurance. But then, without warning, the moment shattered as Dean lowered Cas to the floor and crossed his arms over his chest, still too angry and high-strung to switch his black eyes back to green.

"Look," Sam, ever the peacekeeper, said gently, coming to stand beside both of them and clasping their shoulders, "We're all a little emotional right now, so why don't we—" Finally, Castiel just couldn't take it anymore and pressed two fingers to Sam's forehead, peacefully knocking him out in an instant. Dean caught him before he could flop to the ground and set him down on to the tattered remains of the couch. The gesture was so terribly thoughtful and _Dean_-like that Castiel felt his narrowed gaze soften...

That is, before the demon turned back around and slammed Cas against the wall, ignoring the angel's groan of pain as he demanded, "Now answer the goddamn question, Castiel: Where. Were. You?"

"I was helping Hannah track down rogue angels to bring them back to Heaven," The angel answered gruffly, glaring bullets at Dean while trying not to shudder under his bruising touch, "It's what I _do _now, Dean. I need to help Heaven in any way I—"

"Bullshit!" The demon barked, "You're doing it for _her,_ aren't you? She your lost cause now, Cas? Since I'm too gone to be saved, you think you can turn her into your _hero_?" Revulsion and hurt rippled through his expression like a stone casted into water as he added brokenly, "I can _smell_ her all _over you."_

"We mended each other's wounds, Dean," Castiel growled, anger seizing his heart and loosening his tongue, "You're jealous of her for that? For _helping_ me? Or would you much rather I die from blood loss than let her dare touch me? You know, maybe I _should_ have let myself die," He shoved Dean, but because of his lack of his usual strength, Dean didn't budge (which only made Castiel even angrier), "At least then I could have died with _dignity_ instead of like—"

"Shut up," Dean exclaimed through clenched teeth, seizing his face in his hands and forcing him to meet his wild-eyed gaze, "Just _shut up,_ or I'll rip your _fucking_ tongue out." For the first time, Castiel felt fear trickle down his spine, paralyzing his body and short-circuiting his mind. He tried to respond—to say what, Cas himself didn't even know—but all words died in his throat before they could reach his mouth.

Dean didn't give a damn about his shell-shocked silence, continuing in a gruff, desperate voice, "You _always_ leave me, Cas. Every. Single. Time. No matter what I do for you or what happens between us, you leave and I'm left never knowing whether you'll come back or not. Fuck, most of the time, I believe that I'll never see you again." He sucked in a shaky breath, "Back then, I was weak and helpless, but _now_? Now I can _do something_ about it. Now…I can keep you here _forever._" All terror flooded out of his system when Dean's switched back to green, and for a second, it was like Cas finally had him back, even for the briefest of moments.

"I never wanted to leave you, Dean. Not once," Castiel said quietly, "But as much as I wish otherwise, my duties don't end at just serving you and your brother. I have responsibilities in Heaven and my own needs. I...I can't just be your angel, Dean. I have to be my own."

Dean shook his head, "No, I won't let you. You're _mine,_ don't you get that?"

Castiel felt himself harden in defense, the urge to argue about the possessive comment almost strong enough to win out over his common sense. But luckily, Cas knew how to play smart and pick his battles, so he forced the protests down his throat. _It's only temporary,_ he assured himself, _he'll snap out of this when he's human again. Just let him win this one battle._

Eventually, when the silence became too deafening, Castiel snapped out of his reverie and purposely lowered his gaze in feigned submission, rasping out tiredly, "I've always been yours, Dean. But these missions with Hannah—they make me feel _stronger_. Sometimes, along with you and Sam, they're the only thing that keep me going." It was a lie. All logic pointed to that, but graciously, Dean wasn't thinking logically at the moment.

"Promise you'll always come back," Dean pleaded tersely, grasping his chin and forcing his head upward to look at him, "Just promise, and I'll let you go on your stupid crusade."

Castiel cleared his throat, this time speaking the truth, "I promise."

Dean's shoulders sagged with relief and he took a few steps back to give Castiel room to breathe, "Good." He then looked over at Sam, and his eyes softened, and it was in these moments that Castiel let himself believe that his Dean was still in there somewhere.

"I'm going to lug him to his bed and clean up," Dean said casually, as if he didn't just have a mental breakdown, "You go wash up and wait in my room. I'll be there in an hour or so." It wasn't a suggestion, but Castiel was going to do that anyway, so he didn't challenge it. Instead he nodded and walked sluggishly to the shower, only stopping when he heard Dean say, "Cas?"

He turned, arching an eyebrow, "Yes, Dean?"

"I'll do it, you know," The demon said, biting his lip, "I'll—I'll slaughter a thousand dicks with wings if that means I can keep you forever." It was probably meant to be flattering, but all the statement did was churn his stomach.

But Castiel smiled weakly anyways, saying, "I know, Dean, but don't, okay? We'll find another way. Me, you, and Sam—we'll be together forever, one way or another." The words sounded forced and insincere in his own ears, but Dean smiled widely at him and nodded.

Under the hot sprays of the shower, Castiel tried to wash away the feeling that he was losing control of the situation along with the dirt and grime. It didn't work, but at least he tried.

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**Author's Note: Only a few more chapters left! Please remember to review, follow, or favorite.**


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